


When it Breaks

by Sparkle_Free



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-22
Updated: 2010-08-22
Packaged: 2017-10-11 05:01:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/108700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sparkle_Free/pseuds/Sparkle_Free
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Watson catches Holmes in a compromising position, and has to deal with the aftermath of his discovery.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Watson ground his teeth, trying to keep his temper under control as the pair in the next room continued to laugh uproariously. His patient merely smiled at him indulgently.

"Well, I have to say doctor, your friend is still rather disruptive, but I find I prefer this way to the prior," the man said with a chuckle.

Watson forced a smile and refrained from voicing his opinion on the matter. He was finished with the man in minutes, writing him a prescription and sending him on his way with a smile. Watson walked to the window and peered out. The instant his patient was visible in the street, he crossed and knocked on Holmes' door. Holmes, obviously still chuckling, called for him to enter.

Clarky sat across from his friend, sitting in the oddly prim way he tended to do, hat held in his lap. "Good afternoon, doctor," he greeted with a smile. Watson shot him an annoyed look before turning to Holmes.

"Holmes, I would appreciate it if you could at least _attempt_ to keep the noise at acceptable levels when I'm seeing patients."

"I thought we were," Holmes said with a smirk. He shot Clarky a look, and something about the exchange set the man off again, laughing loudly. Watson felt his irritation growing at the private joke.

"Not for the last fifteen minutes, you weren't," Watson said patiently. "Please, have a little more consideration, _both_ of you," he glared at Clarky again, who had finally managed to get himself back under control.

"You have my word we will behave, Mother Hen," Holmes held up a hand. Clarky snickered, quickly covering his mouth and faking a cough. "You shan't here a peep from us, I promise you." Clarky nodded enthusiastically, and Watson looked between them suspiciously for a moment.

"Alright," he said finally. "I have another patient coming up in a few minutes, and then I'm done for the day." He turned to Holmes. "Perhaps then we could consider dinner, if you don't have other plans?" he asked, pointedly ignoring Clarky.

"I'm sorry, but Clarky I have reservations tonight," Holmes said. He looked genuinely contrite, but that didn't stop Watson's temper from flaring.

"Of course," he said hastily. "Perhaps another time."

Watson returned to his study, trying to shake off the feeling of being excluded. It was ridiculous. _Excluded._ Holmes didn't _exclude_ him. The man was positively clingy, to the point of being annoying, at times. With his upcoming wedding, he should be glad that Holmes had found a new friend. Even if it was an irritating, green-around-the-edges police officer who followed Holmes with an eerie sort of reverence.

Perhaps that was it. Holmes loved to be admired, to have his ego stroked. Surely that was all. A knock on the door drew him from his thoughts. He called for them to enter, and Mrs. Hudson peeked around the door. "There is a Mr. Bell here to see you, Doctor," she said.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, please show him up. Oh," he said as she closed the door. She stuck her head back in and waited. "We'll only need dinner for one tonight, if you'd please." He frowned. "Holmes has... other plans." Mrs. Hudson's eyebrows rose in surprise, but she nodded.

"Of course, Doctor," she closed the door behind her. Watson leaned back against his desk with a sigh and waited for his patient to enter. A loud sound suddenly erupted from the next room, and he buried his head in his hands with a frustrated groan.

\-----

Watson ran toward the platform, dragging his bag behind him awkwardly, finally slowing to a stop and watching as his train left from the station without him. Cursing, he crossed to the bench and sank down onto it with a sigh, looking around, dismayed.

He'd been asked to speak at a medical conference the next morning, and had happily accepted. He was pleased to hear that his work, while not as steady as it used to be, was still well-respected in his field. He'd had a ticket for the first train of the day, wishing to arrive early and settle in, perhaps arrange his notes once more before his speaking engagement.

However, living with Sherlock Holmes, nothing ever goes as planned. Holmes had awoken him early that morning, claiming his assistance was an absolute necessity on this case, and promising to have him at the train station with plenty of time to spare. Watson had been skeptical, but had reluctantly agreed.

By the time the train was actually departing, Watson was chasing a a suspect - probably a hired gun - through a warehouse, revolver in hand, heart pounding as he wondering desperately where Holmes had disappeared to.

The instant he knew his friend was still alive - and reined in his temper enough to ensure he would remain that way - Watson had wired for a ticket on a later train, going over his notes while Holmes gave Lestrade a run-down on their case.

When _that_ train was departing, Watson had been tending to a bullet wound in a young constable's arm, courtesy of their suspect. Granted, that hadn't been Holmes fault directly, but that didn't stop him from glaring darkly at the man as he made arrangements yet again.

And now here he was, stuck at the station with no options but to return home and concede defeat. Holmes' career had bested his own once again. If he were keeping score, he might have had it in him to feel ashamed. As it was, he just felt weary. He forced himself to his feet and walked to the street to hail a cab.

The whole ride home he slumped against the side of the cab, the bouncing irritating his already sore leg and making his foul mood even worse. By the time he arrived at Baker Street, he was grumbling darkly and looking forward to bullying Holmes into helping him get comfortable by the fire and indulging in a few glasses of brandy with him. He knew his friend didn't really mind on the rare occasions he came home like this; and he took care of the detective often enough that when his leg did finally get the better of him, he let his friend tend to him without shame. He suspected that the detective secretly enjoyed it, actually. As for the brandy, well, Holmes never took issue with indulging in _anything,_ so that would be no problem.

The cab jolted to a stop, causing him to groan as he lurched forward. He paid the man, then carefully walked to the door and let himself in. The first thing he did was look for Mrs. Hudson, hoping for some late tea, but he was surprised to find she wasn't in. That was certainly odd. Shrugging, he climbed the stairs, looking forward to the warmth of their sitting room and hopefully some good company to salvage the rest of his evening.

The instant he reached the top of the stairs he knew something was wrong. Holmes' bedroom door was closed; not a worrying sign in and of itself, but there were odd noises coming from beyond it. Soft sounds that nonetheless echoed down the empty hall. He crossed to the door, a strange apprehension growing within him. He gripped the door handle and turned it. Unlocked.

He applied the slightest pressure, and the door seemed to swing open of it's own accord.


	2. Chapter 2

For a moment, he couldn't comprehend what he was seeing.

There was Clarky, completely naked except for his pants, which were bunched around his ankles. He was laying on his back on the bed, hands flexing over slim hips, strong thighs, as he thrust his hips upward. And Holmes. Holmes -

\- was shouting, then, raising up to his knees, and time seemed to slow down, somehow. Watson watched, horrified, as Clarky slipped out of him, his shaft standing erect and glistening. Holmes' erection bobbed obscenely as he shifted to the side, and Watson snapped back to himself with a gasp. He backed out of the room and fled.

He stumbled into his study and slammed the door, locking it behind him. He drew a deep, shaky breath and slid into his chair, only to jump back to his feet almost immediately and begin pacing, brushing off the pain in his leg. Welcoming it. Anything to keep him from thinking about what he'd just seen.

There were hushed voices in the hall, then a single set of footsteps on the stairs. He closed his eyes and tried to block it all out, cursing his years of living with Holmes. For many reasons.

So many reasons.

He didn't hear the lock picks scratching, but he wasn't surprised when the door to his study swung open behind him. He turned to the window, not wanting to see his friend's face. The alien image of Holmes - eyes closed, lips parted, face flushed and sweaty - wouldn't leave him, and he was afraid to turn around and try to reconcile that with the familiar form of the man behind him.

"Watson, I can explain," Holmes said from behind him. His voice trembled, and Watson hated him for it.

"Please, don't," he answered desperately. Explaining would make this real, would require some sort of acknowledgment on his part. There would be an apology. He would have to find it in himself to forgive Holmes, to say _it's going to be alright_ when he was fairly sure nothing would ever be alright again. Not for them.

"I tried," he said softly. "Watson, I _tried_ to stop. I couldn't -"

"I don't want to hear it." God, he couldn't bear to hear it.

"I never meant for you to find out," Holmes said in a hushed voice. His voice was thick, and Watson had to turn away further and squeeze his eyes shut, his own turbulent emotions bringing a lump to his throat. "I couldn't bear to - to lose your friendship. Please," Holmes choked out, "believe me -"

"Believe you?" he snorted, anger suddenly rushing through him. "How am I supposed to believe anything you say? You've been lying to me this whole time! We go to dinner together, we go to the opera together. We work together. We live together. All the while, you knew, _you knew_ you had these - these," his nose wrinkled in loathing, "_tendencies,_ and you allowed yourself to carry on as though we were some kind of -" his eyes widened as he broke off abruptly, fear and disgust coiling within him as his mind helpfully supplied him with images. Holmes, idly slipping his arm through Watson's on long walks. Holmes, cradling a fat puppy in his arms and arguing playfully over what to name him. Holmes, staring at him in shocked disbelief when he'd announced his engagement. "Holmes," he whispered, aghast. He finally turned to look at him then, to see his eyes red-rimmed, face resigned.

"Yes," was all he said.

He swayed where he stood, and Holmes rushed toward him, reaching to steady him. He jerked away from his touch and stumbled back, Holmes flinching as though he'd been struck. Perhaps, he thought idly, this was worse.

Watson shook his head. It was no more than he deserved, he reminded himself. He turned and stalked to the door, gripping the handle tight enough that his knuckled turned white. "I'll have the rest of my things delivered to my new practice," he said over his shoulder. Holmes didn't respond; merely slumped against his desk, defeated. After a moment, he jerked the door open and walked out.

The next few days passed slowly. He stalked through the rooms, sparsely furnished but still coldly impersonal. He tried to tell himself it would feel like home once his personal effects arrived. He tried to sleep the first night, but his dreams begin to drift toward hands clenched on pale white skin, the way Holmes' hips had shifted just so, and he awoke with a gasp, sweat running down his face.

The boxes were finally stacked in the sitting room a few days later, his wardrobe suspiciously smaller than it had been when he'd left. It didn't matter. He would not play Holmes' little games, not any more. He had no intention of returning to Baker Street to quibble about waistcoats like a couple of old -

He broke off with a shudder. Why hadn't he seen it before? Looking back, all the signs were clear. Holmes' attitude toward women. His fierce desire to keep Watson nearby, no matter the cost.

A soft whimper drew him from his thoughts, and he looked down to see Gladstone at his feet, looking up at him. He'd arrived that morning with the rest of Watson's belongings, tugging at his leash, clearly happy to see him. He smiled, kneeling down to scratch him between his ears. Gladstone continued to whine.

"What? Are you hungry?" he led him to his food dish. He whined again. He let him out, thinking perhaps he needed to relieve himself, but Gladstone continued to cry, following him from room to room. He exhausted all of his options until there was nothing else it could possibly be.

"We're not going back," he said flatly. He sat in his chair by the fire - the space across from it bare - and tried to ignore Gladstone's incessant whimpers. After twenty minutes, however, he crossed to his medical bag and pulled out the weakest sedative in it, tossing the pill to the dog and watching as he swallowed it whole. His mouth opened wide almost in a smile and his tongue lolled out. He licked Watson's hand in what could only be construed as a doggie _thank you_, then lay on his side by the fire. A minute later he was asleep.

"You poor, poor creature," Watson said, shaking his head. He looked around the unfamiliar room once more and with a sigh, began to unpack.

Once he'd finished, he sat in the middle of the room, looking around. All of his belongings were here, and yet, nothing looked the same. He felt like a stranger intruding in his own home.

Finally it clicked. Everything that was missing belonged to Holmes. It didn't feel like his desk because Holmes' papers weren't strewn about the top. It didn't feel like his mantle because Holmes' Persian slipper wasn't there, stuffed with tobacco. He ground his teeth. His whole life revolved around Holmes, he realized with a start. Mary was a delightful gem, a gorgeous addition, but Holmes was like his right arm, his lungs, his very heart. They were the very definition of the difference between _want_ and _need_.

He shook his head to clear it, chiding himself for such ridiculous thoughts. He rose to his feet and strode to the bedroom. His bedroom had always been _his_ domain, one small patch of terrain in their shared home that Holmes hadn't managed to conquer. Here, at least, everything looked right. This was his space, and he would share it with Mary, just as he should. He nodded to himself, falling onto his bed and rolling to look at the ceiling. With a pang of sadness, he felt the one thing he hadn't managed to feel in years.

Boredom.

Mary came for dinner a few days later. It had been a pleasant surprise for her when he'd announced he was moving into their new home sooner than planned. She'd been pleased, obviously thinking it a sign of his eagerness to begin their lives together.

He watched her sip her wine, tilting his head to the side as he contemplated her. Mary was a beautiful woman. Any man - any sane man, he thought with a hint of disgust - would be thrilled to be engaged to such a beauty. After all, he knew why _he_ wanted to marry her, he told himself.

He stood and walked around the table, taking her hand. Marriage was about stability. He tugged her from her chair. It was about family. He pulled her close, wrapped his arms around her. It was about status. He kissed her gently.

He thought of Holmes and Clarky. They could have none of those things. He trailed his lips down Mary's neck, arousal beginning to flare within him. Their affair was meaningless. Driven by some sort of animalistic lust. He moved his lips back to press against hers, silencing her soft protests.

"Please," he whispered against her lips. "I need you."

Sometimes marriage was about deceit, as well.

She blushed, nervous, but gave a jerky nod. He led her to the bedroom, kissing her softly, coaxing her to sit on the edge of the bed.

He slowly unbuttoned her dress, taking in the soft curves, the way her hair tumbled over her shoulders as she dropped the combs holding it in place on the floor. He slid her clothing from her, running his fingers down her sides as he exposed her breasts, trying to banish the image of hard planes of muscle that seemed burned into his mind.

She was trembling, and for some reason, it aggravated him. _He didn't tremble_, a traitorous voice whispered in his mind. With a growl, he pushed her down on her back. She looked up at him, eyes wide, as he hastily removed his clothing and poised himself above her.

She gasped as he slid into her, a high-pitched sound directly in his ear. He squeezed his eyes shut, echoes of low, deep moans in his mind driving him to press in deeper, faster, until the bed was shaking below them. And it still wasn't enough.

He gripped her hips and rolled them over, pulling her on top of him and holding her in place, thrusting into her roughly. He closed his eyes against her surprised expression, urging her back until she was sitting up, bracing herself with her hands on his chest. He gripped her hard enough to bruise and thrust desperately, the images of those muscled shoulders flexing, dark hair tangled, hand gripping his cock, all invading in his thoughts and driving him over the edge. He convulsed, biting his lip against the name that threatened to tumble out.

He released her finally, sinking bonelessly against the bed with a sigh. She moved to lay next to him, molding herself around his side. He looked at her, all soft curves and beautiful smiles. She covered his hand with her own.

"I love you," she said. He stared down at her.

"You should go," he answered.


	3. Chapter 3

Mary, after her initial disappointment, had reluctantly agreed they shouldn't spend too much time alone together before the wedding. He'd seen her to the door, kissed her gently and watched her walk away.

His beautiful fiancee. He loved her. He closed the door, trying to ignore the way his chest ached.

They made arrangements several times over the next few weeks to meet - in public - for tea, or meals. Watson spent most of his time restlessly pacing their home, waiting. Waiting for the wedding. Waiting for his patients. Waiting for something in his life to begin to make sense.

Each time a knock on the door startled him, he felt a little guiltier when the telegram arrived and he realized he'd missed their date, again. The fifth time, he answered the door to see Mary herself standing there, looking disappointed, but certainly not surprised.

"Mary, I'm so sorry." He ran his hand through his hair. "I lost track of the time, and -"

"I want to come in, John," she interrupted softly.

"Of course," he stepped to the side. She entered, and immediately led the way to the sitting room. He pulled the door shut behind him, waiting. She walked to the fire and knelt beside Gladstone, scratching his ears. The dog didn't budge.

"Mary?" he asked warily. She stood with a sigh, turning to face him. He walked over to her, reaching to take her hands in his. She pressed something into his hands instead.

The metal was cold against his palm. He uncurled his fingers and stared at it, uncomprehending.

"You're... leaving me?" He turned the ring over in his hand as he looked up at her. "Why?" Guilt washed over him. "Is it because I -"

She shook her head with a pained expression. "No." There was a long pause as she regarded him seriously. "You're looking for something, John. I don't know what," she looked wistful for a moment, "but it's not me, is it?"

He looked down again, ashamed. He knew the answer immediately, but it took him several tries to say it aloud. "No," he whispered eventually. "It's not."

"I'm sorry, John," she said. "I hope, whatever it is that you need, you find it." She leaned forward and pressed her lips to his cheek, such a soft, chaste gesture that it brought a lump to his throat. He caught her hands as she leaned back.

"Mary..." he said softly. He opened his mouth again, unsure of what to say. "I wanted to love you," he said finally. She smiled sadly.

"I wanted you to, as well." She tugged her hands away, slipped past him and out the door. He waited several minutes after he heard the front door close, then he grabbed his hat from the hook next to the door and headed out.

He walked for hours, not caring where he ended up, as long as it wasn't his practice. He still couldn't bring himself to think of it as home, not when everything still looked so out of place. He wouldn't even have a chance to build happy memories there; just long hours pacing his empty rooms.

He blinked, suddenly realizing where his feet had taken him. He looked up at the window of 221B for a moment. Was he really looking for something, or had he been hiding from it?

He crossed to the door and pulled his key out of his pocket, determined to find out.

He slipped inside, looking around his old home wistfully. Mrs. Hudson poked her head out curiously, beaming when she saw him standing there.

"Doctor! It's so good to see you! Have you come to visit Mr. Holmes, then?" she asked. His insides clenched. _Holmes._

He opened his mouth, but had no idea what to say. _I don't know_ didn't seem right, but he had little else to say, so he just shrugged. He walked slowly up the stairs and pushed open the sitting room door. He had just stepped inside when Holmes' door opened. Holmes stood in the doorway, hand raising to his mouth as he stared at Watson in disbelief. A mix of anger and affection rushed through him. With a keen eye, he looked over Holmes, glad to see that he must have been eating a little during their separation.

Their separation. The events of that day came rushing back. Holmes and Clarky; Holmes' lying to him. Every damn day, letting him believe things about him - about _them_ \- that weren't true.

Suddenly, he didn't know why he was here. But Holmes stood in front of him, looking nervous and pleased and so damn _curious_ that for a moment, he felt like breaking something.

So he did.

He wasn't sure what he thought would happen when the tumbler crashed to the ground, but when Holmes flinched, startled, he knew it had been the right choice. He stalked toward Holmes, who backed away slightly, farther into his room.

"Mary is leaving me," he said lowly. Holmes looked bewildered. "Do you want to know why?" Holmes nodded slowly, stopping his slow retreat. Watson continued to advance, slowly closing the gap between them. "Because of you. Because I can't stop thinking about you. Because I wake every morning with your name on my lips, because I forget dinner dates while trying not to think about what you look like," he jerked roughly at Holmes' collar, snapping off buttons and pulling it apart, "under here," he whispered. He felt Holmes shudder as his breath ghosted across his cheek.

Holmes licked his lips, tugging backwards slightly. "I can hardly take responsibility for that," he said. Watson could feel his anger rising. "I cannot be to blame if you suddenly find me more attractive than your fia-"

There was a loud crack as his knuckles met with Holmes' cheekbone, wrenching him from Watson's grip. He landed hard on his side, sliding a bit in the mounds of papers before he stopped. Watson shook his hand, the knuckles burning; but to see Holmes lying there, shock clearly written on his face... it was worth it. He crossed the room quickly and straddled him, pressing him to the ground. Anger and something else were thrumming through him, chasing through his veins and leaving him feeling dizzy and confused. He gripped both of Holmes' wrists in one of his hands, pinning them above his head and raised his fist. Holmes merely laid there, and through the haze of his fury Watson realized that while Holmes could easily shake him off, he wasn't attempting to. Excitement suddenly coursed through him.

"What do you want from me?" Watson asked breathlessly. Holmes' lips parted then, and he looked up at Watson, eyes wide, the _hope_ burning in them too much for him to bear. He forgot himself, tried to forget that the man of the past few weeks had even _existed_, and pressed his lips to Holmes' hungrily. Their teeth clashed, he tasted blood as Holmes pressed up recklessly into the contact. He let go of his wrists and ripped at his shirt, sending buttons scattering across the floor and forcing the garment down his shoulders, pulling Holmes up just far enough to use his own shirt to trap his arms at his sides. He shoved hard, Holmes' head smacking against the floor as Watson grabbed his throat and held him there, reaching down between them to unbutton his fly.

"Watson," Holmes whimpered. He tightened his grip slightly.

"Shut. Up," he growled as he fished out Holmes' cock and stroked it roughly. Holmes arched into the touch and opened his mouth again. "Just shut up," he warned him. "I am sick of you taking every moment and over-analyzing it, I am sick of your explanations and and I am sick of your _logic_," he tugged brutally, and Holmes' features spasmed in pain. He slowed immediately, stroking gently, apologetically. "I am sick of trying to make this make sense," he said, so quiet that at first he wasn't sure if Holmes heard him.

Then he felt a fumbling movement over his own clothed erection, and realized Holmes had somehow managed to shift one of his hands to palm at him through his trousers. He hissed as Holmes pressed against him, talented fingers massaging, somehow using the cloth between them to tantalize, rather than distract. Even with his hands bound, Holmes managed to make short work of his buttons and pull his cock free. At the first touch of those fingers against his bare skin, desire coursed through him, making him gasp with the intensity of it all.

He flipped Holmes over, gripping his hips hard enough to bruise. From this angle Holmes was able to slip his arms from his shirt and slide away slightly. His hands scrambled under his bed. Watson jerked him back, but his hand had already closed over a bottle.

"Wait," Holmes said breathlessly, "Use this." He held the oil out for Watson to take. He hissed, anger flaring through him again that Holmes already had the situation figured out. He unstopped the bottle, pouring the oil over his fingers and fisting his cock, stroking roughly. Holmes pushed his pants and undergarments around his knees, bracing his arms against the floor.

To see Holmes spread out before him, ass raised in the air waiting for him, was too much. He surged forward, pressing inside in one swift, hard movement. Holmes whimpered under him; a soft, pained whine, but pressed back eagerly. Watson froze, shocked by the sheer intensity of the flesh gripping him; he'd never experienced anything like it, and he groaned aloud at the sensation. Holmes whimpered in earnest then, rolling his hips, encouraging him; Watson gasped as desire threatened to overwhelm him. He fisted a hand in Holmes' hair to hold him in place, thrusting shallowly, watching fascinated as the darker skin of his cock disappeared into Holmes. Joined.

He pressed Holmes' cheek to the floor and pulled out to the head and slammed back in, tightening his hand in Holmes' hair until tears formed in his friend's eyes. He didn't stop, thrusting harder until the sound of flesh striking flesh and occasional pained moans and desperate whimpers filled the room. Pleasure was building at the base of his spine and he knew he wouldn't last much longer. He thrust desperately, the friction slightly painful as he frantically sought release. Holmes' eyes were screwed shut, his mouth moving, though in his haze Watson had no idea what he was asking for. Finally Holmes' mouth opened wide, the tear in his eye sliding down his cheek as his muscles clenched around him, causing him to gasp and writhe as he shot his release into his friend. He collapsed onto Holmes' back, panting.

The moment Watson's hands left his hip and hair, Holmes scrambled out from under him, stumbling as he jerked his pants up and hurried out the door. Watson hastily re-buttoned his fly, shame flooding him. He glanced around Holmes' bedroom for a moment and felt himself flush as his eyes landed on the proof of their coupling splashed across the floor. He turned and hurried after Holmes. He reached the sitting room just as the door to his room - the _other_ room, he reminded himself - clicked shut.

He ran his hands through his hair in frustration.

He knew what he was looking for. Knew why Holmes felt he should chose a cheap imitation of what he really wanted as clearly as he knew why he had chosen a shining example of what he _should_ want.

Should, should, should.

He should check that Holmes was uninjured. He should beg his friend's forgiveness. He should throw himself at Holmes' feet and bind himself there.

In the end, he did the only thing he was certain he shouldn't do.

He fled.


	4. Chapter 4

The walls of his practice were cold, empty, his harsh breathing echoing in the rapidly descending darkness. He paced again, cursing himself for the thousandth time. For Mary, for Holmes. For what he was doing to all of them, all the wrongs he could never make right again. He'd lost Mary; he was pushing away Holmes, but had he ever truly deserved either of them?

There was an ache in his chest; a physical pain that seemed to be tugging at him, urging him home. He felt frustrated and so helpless.

He couldn't do this any more. He couldn't keep making these mistakes. He needed to know what to do. He needed to see Holmes.

He nearly flew down the steps, looking up and down the empty street in vain. Cursing, he gripped his cane tighter and began the long walk back to Baker Street.

The door opened just as he was reaching for the handle, and suddenly Clarky was striding toward him, head bowed. His head snapped up just before they ran into each other, and they gaped at each other for a moment, Clarky flushing deeply. Watson pushed him aside and rushed in, an icy pit of fear forming in his stomach.

He threw open the sitting room door to find Holmes crouched in his chair, looking miserable.

"What was he doing here?" Watson asked. The instant the words were out of his mouth he winced.

Holmes turned to look at him. "Leaving," he answered sadly. Relief flooded him, quickly followed by guilt and confusion. He crossed to kneel in front of Holmes, reaching out to grip his arm. Holmes merely looked at him, face blank.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Please," Watson whispered. "Tell me what to do."

After everything he'd said and done, he was here, like so many others, to place this twisted mess at Holmes' feet to let him tease out the truth. Trusting him to know what was best.

"Tell me what you want," Holmes said softly.

"I don't know. There's only one thing I know for certain," he gripped Holmes' arm tighter. "I need you," he said.

Holmes look up then, mouth twisted in a slight smile but his eyes dark and sad. "Is that all?" he asked. Watson tilted his head, confused.

"Isn't that enough?"

"Perhaps it will have to be," Holmes said, turning to look at the fire. Watson moved his hand to grip his shoulder, and asked a question very few people bothered to ask the great detective.

"What do _you_ want?"

For a moment, Holmes' eyes were wide, startled, then a heartbreakingly vulnerable expression chased over his features. "I want you," he whispered back. "I need your open face, your easy smiles, your concern. I need to feel your eyes on me to know that I'm here."

Suddenly Watson knew with startling clarity where he'd gone wrong. "I don't need you; not the way we were. I don't need you hiding from me, hoping, wishing, _wanting_, where I can't see you." He pulled the detective toward him. "Let me see you," he whispered.

Holmes slid out of his chair, sinking to his knees and wrapping his arms around Watson, burying his face into his neck and inhaling deeply, a silent thanks. Watson gripped him to his chest, something breaking inside of him as he turned his head to press a kiss to Holmes' neck. Holmes rose, then, and guided them back to his bedroom, not bothering to light the gas lamps as they undressed each other. Holmes guided Watson until he was lying on the bed, Holmes looked down at him, taking in his naked form. He flushed, heart racing.

Holmes suddenly lowered himself to lay on top of him, blanketing him with his naked flesh. Watson wrapped his arms around him, adjusting to the feel of them pressed together, overwhelmed by the sensation. He waited anxiously for Holmes to do something, but his friend merely laid there, running a finger idly up and down his arm. As he relaxed, Watson found himself curiously running his fingers down Holmes' sides, learning his friend by feel rather than sight. He mapped Holmes' skin, running his fingers through his hair, over his back and down his arms. Finally Holmes could no longer stand it and leaned back, rolling them onto their sides so he could do the same. Their legs tangled together as Holmes ran his hands over his face, stroking his eyelids, his cheeks, his lips. Watson raised his hands to do the same, marveling at the way Holmes' eyes slid closed.

They moved to their chests, Watson running his fingers down the smooth flesh, feeling the muscles of Holmes' abdomen flex as he drew in a sharp breath. His hands sliding gently through the hair on Watson's chest, stroking over the soft skin of his nipples. Watson jerked slightly, moaning at the sensation, and curiously moved to do the same. Holmes leaned into the touch a fraction, sliding closer and moving one hand around Watson to press at the muscles of his back.

Holmes slid a knee between his thighs, encouraging him to spread his legs. He slid his hand down, trailing his nails lightly over his erection, moving down to run his fingertips over his sac. Watson sucked in a breath and looked down at Holmes' erection, nestled against his own.

He hesitated. Holmes' eyes shot open.

Suddenly he felt too vulnerable, lying here with Holmes' hands lovingly teasing his most intimate places, eyes on him. He pulled away slightly, relieved when Holmes let him go. He was so gentle, open, Watson closed his eyes as a strange emotion nearly overwhelmed him.

"Take me like I took you," Watson said, slightly pleading.

He felt a hand stroke softly down his back, and knew Holmes understood what he was asking. He wanted absolution; he wanted hope. But Holmes merely continued to stroke down his back and he leaned closer and whispered in his ear, "No."

"Why not?" he whispered.

Holmes rolled him onto his back. "I want to give you something else," was all he said.

Holmes moved to straddle him, reaching once more for the bottle of oil near his bed. He coated his fingers and reached behind himself, mouth falling open slightly. He raised up to his knees, and suddenly Watson knew why he was doing this.

He was completely vulnerable, open before him with his cheeks stained pink as his hand worked carefully. He hissed as the muscles stretched slowly. Watson's hands seemed to drift to his hips of their own accord, thumbs stroking over his hipbones as he watched. Holmes finally pulled his hand away, reached for more oil before he reached behind him and gripped Watson's shaft. Pleasure shot through him and he groaned as slick fingers massaged him gently, drawing a whimper from him. He watched, nearly holding his breath as Holmes positioned himself over Watson and slid down achingly slow.

Holmes moved slowly, running his hands over Watson's chest, murmuring soft, sweet words until tears filled his eyes and he shifted his hips, moving in time with his friend's rhythm. Holmes smiled, reaching to dash his tears away before they could slide down his cheeks. His breath hitched, and he pulled Holmes down for a soft, sweet kiss, pressing his tongue inside and marveling at the taste of him. Holmes leaned back then, still smiling down at him, never slowing the movement of his hips as his head fell back and he began to moan softly. Watson slid a hand between them and gripped his shaft, tugging, urging him until he couldn't take it anymore and let out a choked cry, releasing over Watson's hand and abdomen. He sped up, then, thrusting into Holmes' sated form for only a minute more before pleasure shot through him and he relaxed, spent.

Holmes reached for a rag and wiped them clean, moving to lay next to him, drawing him close. His eyes were shining in a way Watson had never seen, but he didn't speak. He didn't need to. Watson held him close, affection rushing through him as Holmes began to drift off. He was on the brink of sleep himself when he finally figured out what this felt like.

It felt like home.


End file.
